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Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur, Buffy, or Angel. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story.

Author's Note: Thank you so much. And thanks for all the wonderful reviews.

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Anywhere's Better Than Cleveland

Chapter Seven: Dreams

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Wait, what was Tristan doing back?

He was on patrol with the other knights.

And why was he stalking towards her like some great cat?

Faith backed up, suddenly remembering that she was face to face with a man who had a past as shadowy as her own, at least if the movie was to be believed. A man who had seen possibly as much darkness as she. A man who right now looked completely capable of ripping her head from her shoulders. She shivered as her back collided with the wall.

Tristan let his palms rest on the wall on either side of her shoulders, pinning her in place. The smile he offered her bordered on feral as he stepped even closer, pressing her closer to the wall. He let his head drop down, his nose nearing her throat as he inhaled her scent.

Faith held her breath as he--smelled her? The situation almost had her laughing, except for the fact that his thigh was set between hers. He wasn't letting her have any room--her entire world had diminished to him. Which was completely unnerving. "Guess you found out I'm the slayer," she offered lamely. Best to try and get this back on a rational footing--before it spiraled completely out of control.

Tristan nuzzled her ear and felt her sharp intake of breath. Lifting his head, he looked down at her, fixing his brown eyes on hers. "Yes," he whispered, his thigh pressing against her until he heard her gasp. "The slayer," he agreed again, his mouth now inches from her throat.

Faith gasped when his mouth made contact with her throat. Her hands, which had been clenched by her side, rose to clutch his shoulders. She wasn't sure if she was trying to stop him or not. That seemed to involve thought--something for which she seemed to have no talent at the present. "Sorry," she whispered as he nibbled the column of her throat.

Tristan chuckled. He nipped her flesh, reveling in her soft moan, before he gently drew he flesh into his mouth to suckle it.

Faith arched under him. He was giving her a hickey. God's gift to a sword was giving her a hickey. Time to nip this in the bud, so to speak. "I have to go back," she squeaked, tightening her hold on his shoulders as he explored her throat.

Tristan pulled back, the pupils of his eyes practically consuming the velvety brown of his eyes. "No, you don't," he ground out.

Faith rocketed up in bed, her hand moving to her throat. Figures that she, who had a living icing creatures who bit people on the neck, would dream about getting bitten. Freud would have a field day.

And since when did she dream about Tristan?

Covering her face with her hands, the slayer dropped back onto the mattress with a groan.

Yay for prophetic dreams.

May they all suck for all eternity.

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TBC...

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